Guild Wars 2: The Guardian
by Konoha's Crimson Fox
Summary: AU: Base off GW2 male norn personal story. Eighteen years ago, Elder Dragon Jormag reeked havoc on Hoelbrak, leaving it in ruins. In the process, Conan Burnstien's father Tokkot Burnstein life was claimed by Jormag. Conan trained in the profession of Guardian for 18 years, honing his skills. He joins Eir Stegalkin on adventures and missions to rid Jormag's followers and minions
1. Character Introduction

**Guild Wars 2: The Guardian **

Character's Introduction

_I'm Conan The Guardian._

_I am a Norn._

_My race was nearly devastated by Elder Dragon Jormag. Families and love ones have been lost. My father was taken from me when I was a child and left my mother widowed. But as one, we band together against the Elder Dragons that threatens to purge Tyria in utter chaos and into the brink of oblivion. However, the Norn can't do this alone. It's my duty to reunite all races together, so that Tyria one day overcome the onslaught that will be bestowed upon it._

_Though trouble may follow me, I overcome it with ferocity. Wolf, my spirit guide, teaches that there's a time for violence and a time for peace._

_I work hard to maintain my physical strength and prowess. And yet, I know failure. I challenged my life my lifelong rival Jormag to fight at Frostgorge Sound, and in my overconfidence, I lost. I failed to revenge my father's death and all whom been victimized by it. I swear as long as I live, I look forward to the day when I can even the score._

_I'm a Guardian. I wear the armor of my passing father. In his name and memory, I have the aspirations of a conqueror._

_This is my story._

Author's Comments

Hello to all GW2 fans and players. My account is Halt.9072. That's in case you need to make contact with me during the game or on the forums. This work of fanfiction is based of my main character Conan The Guardian's personal story. This fanfiction is a parody.

You noticed I've made a typo with Guardian. If you typed in Guardian after "Conan The...", that won't be me. However, as my endeavor in the Guild Wars is that I want to contribute more than as a player.

However, my grammar is sloppy, but I try ti improve on my writing.

I want to a least tell a story, instead of playing in it. I hopefully, one day that Guild Wars 1&2 will seek the respect it deserves in the fandom world, which is clearly being dominated by Naruto and Harry Potter. And I thank you all for reading this and for ArenaNet for making such a fantastic game in the years to come.

Two chapters have updated today, and two more tomorrow, Friday.

Story updates every 1-2 weeks.

Thank you all.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

_**C**_onan came prowling out of the snowy field. He was just a little boy at the age of eight, sneaking out of the Wolf's Lodge and into the stables. The leather saddles were still on. He sternly looked over his shoulders and waved out.

"Pss... come Neon."

A pup Arctic Wolf, burrowed beneath snow, pounced out and sprinted towards its young master. Conan knelt, and Neon lounged into his arms. Neon then climbed onto his shoulder. Conan, with both hands, held onto the reins. He stepped upon the stirrups, but with his first attempt. He slipped off, but quickly balanced himself as he landed on his behind.

He heard Neon winced.

"Sorry." He patted the smitten pup's head. "Let's try this again."

He stepped up on the stirrup. He could mount himself onto the saddle. However, his puny legs couldn't fit completely around the saddles, so what he did was leaned over. His two legs were sticking out in mid-air. Neon, by this time, transitioned and positioned himself on Conan's back.

"Hold on! Giddy-up!"

The dolyak screeched and gallop through the opening of the fence. Conan could feel the claws of Neon, digging into in the coat. Nevertheless, he'd ignore it. Conan was having the time of his life.

"Woo-hoo! Yeah!"

While making it down the steeped hill, an arrow graced the dolyak's knee. The dolyak cried out in pain. Conan and Neon found themselves airborne, screaming Bloody Mary. They were tossed into a patch of snow. Conan swam through it, head poking out of the pile. He saw the dolyak was running away. Neon's head too reemerged from the pile, both expectorated out snow.

"What happened?" He was baffled, and Neon could only reciprocate by barking.

Several arrows were shot in between them. Both faces lost the hue in them as they were scared out of their wits, both sweat-dropped animatedly. A red-head teenage girl, dressed in wolf skin armor, and had a green bow and arrow was knocked and ready to be fired upon. He noticed that her face was tattooed with the hunter markings of a wolf and suddenly. He realized who this girl was.

Eir Stegalkin... the youngest champion hunter in history. She was about his age, which always got him angry that he couldn't accomplish more than her. His mother wouldn't even allow him to enter tournaments that were meant only for grown ups, but not with Eir. She was outstanding, and he had every right to hold any resentment for her. He wanted to vent his rage upon her, two factors that were preventing him to do it.

One that Eir is a girl, and he would never strike one.

And two, she was aiming an arrow at his forehead.

"Heh," he looked at her tempestuously. "Are you crazy! You could have shot us!"

"I saw you stole a dolyak and you must be answered for your crimes, son of Tokkot."

Eir looked at him as if he wasn't taking it gave her a witty grin. Eir looked at him dumbfounded.

"I was only borrowing it." He stuck his tongue out.

"Without permission. That means you're a thief."

"Am not!" he retorted angrily.

"Yes you are!"

"No I'm not!"

A thunderous roaring soared from the heavens. The moon was suddenly covered. Misty snow started to fill the sky, descending down like a fog. Out from the mist, were few large corrupted pillars of ice that landed several yards, nine o'clock from their position. While Eir was distracted, Conan capitalized on the opportunity to escape.

Neon followed silently. They never got that far as one of the crystal pillars cracked like an egg. Out from it, was a wolf hound, covered in ice shards. It's eyes glowed red, officiated on him. Most children is age would have quivered and trembled in their boots, but not Conan.

He'd hunted with his father when he was four years old. He'd had slain boars, bears, and down to the toughest challenge.

A Veteran Ettin.

Tottok, battled with the ettin that came out of nowhere after Conan had hunted a boar. Apparently, the ettin was hunting the boar too. They assumed. During the battle, Tottok Burnstien slipped on a log. He lost his balanced and fell hard on his back. Luckily, Tottok was wearing a helm, or else. His head would have been split open by the jagged boulder. During the fall, the sword fell out of Tottok's hand.

Conan, never hesitated to get to his feet and vaulted for the sword. He dived. He grasped it. He hoisted himself up and looked at the Veteran Ettin raised the club above its double head. He looked back to his father. Tottok was still recovering from a mild concussion. Conan knew it was now or never. He conjured all the courage and charged at the ettin from behind, held out the sword, yelling and screaming at the creature to stop.

The ettin's head spun around, one-eighty and glared at Conan. His body turned around and repositioned itself, so that it could raise the club to counter Conan. Conan had the adrenaline rush that he couldn't even here his father shouting out to him to run away. He kept on charging until he'd beaten the Veteran Ettin to the strike, when the sword found its place in the center of the ettin's throat.

The ettin was giving a choking like crying, swinging its club around aimlessly as blood gushing out from its neck, spilling upon the snowfield. It took the ettin fouty-five seconds to drop dead. And when it did, Tyria itself was shaken to its foundation. Canon would never forget that day when he and his father nearly lost their lives two years ago. And that was the last of his hunting trips, thanks to his apprehensive mother Rena.

The Icebrood Wolf crouched, hissing at its prey. It displayed its fangs, saliva dripping from both corners of its mouth. Its breath froze into icy mist. Conan had unsheathed a rusted dagger from its scabbard. It's been nearly two years since he'd slain anything, and the last one was that Veteran Ettin. No Icebrood Wolf was going to intimidate him. Conan practiced the pouncing parry technique. That's able to counter any hound pouncing by letting it tackling him off balance and punctured a knife or dagger into the hound's chest if timed perfectly. The Momentum of the pouncing would glide over the blade down to the abdominal, or with a shrewder blade, it could slit to pass the groin.

The hound, kicking snow up into the air, lounged around itself in midair. Conan's senses had spiked The ice beast was coming at him in slow motion. He then leaned back because of two safety factors. One, fewer chances of a chance the hound buried its fangs into your cranium or throat. Two, it doesn't land on you, which could be a highly a chance you'll become fresh meat, especially you have those nearly one-thousand-pound stalkers on yah.

There's no escape.

With no hesitation, the beast pounced, lunging its palms out. Conan hoisted the pointed end of his dagger, and he was hit at the same. He felt the blade, slipping into the beast abdominal as he was thrown on his backside. Eyes squinting, he peered over to his left. The Icebrood Wolf fell dead on his left side, and its guts expose right out from its belly. Conan awed. He got to hist feet and immediately look for Neon.

He came lunging out of a pile of snow. He climbed up his master's back and onto the shoulder. He petted Neon until he heard several growls behind hid. There were two more Icebrood Wolfs, stalking them. Conan cringed as he looked to the dagger still in the deceased icebrood's corpse. There was no way he could have stretched for it in time. Fortunately, for him, a volley of arrows rained unto the two beasts, pricking them with arrows.

"Lets go! We don't have all day!"

* * *

****  
Eir decided to let him off the hook once she'd seen her father's house covered with crystal shards. Conan and Neon left her side and seeing the Great Lounge was his only choice because the bath to the Wolf's Lodge has been blocked off.

Heolbrak was in ruins. Ice crystals demolishing rooftops, buildings burnt as they made their way to the capital. Corpses of icebrood minions of Jormag were everywhere, including some Norn.

As he got there, he was happy to see his mother Rena Burnstein, but knew what to expect when she was charging towards him. He was in big trouble for sneaking into the middle of the night. He closed his eyes expecting to be chastise. Instead, he was embraced tightly.

He looked up at her ambiguously and saw her blood-shot read eyes full with tears, nearly torn him apart in the inside to see his mother like that.

"Thank you... the Spirits of the Wild! I could never live if I ever lost another."

Conan looked right and left and there was no sign of his father. For an instance, as his eyes traveled through the sky, a shadow figure of a gargantuan dragon was hidden behind the clouds. Then he looked at her in the eye once more.

"Mom, where's Dad?"

The look on her face was horrified. She mournfully looked away briefly. The gust around them began to pick up.

"You-your father is gone."

"When's he coming back?"

It took another minute for Rena to answer her son's question and when she did, Conan's heart was ripped out from him, not in a physical way. Conan cried for nearly ten minutes. And when the roaring of a dragon descended upon Hoelbrak. And he looked up, the immense gold eyeball of a dragon he knew profoundly was Jormag, glared down upon him from the heavens. The dragon vanished into the abyss, never to be seen or heard from again.

That was when all the sadness in the world had abated.

He was no longer sad, mourning over Tottok's death. He was angry and furious. From this day, he'd pledged an oath by the name of his father and many of his fellows Norns that fell victims of Jormag that he would avenge them.


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_**E**_ighteen years have gone by, training in sweat and blood. From the woods of Wayfarer Foothills, Conan crouched, eying the buck. He then knocked an arrow from its quivered. Making sure that he didn't step on any dried leafs and twigs. He fired one arrow. It hit its mark dead square through the heart and exited out from the opposite end of its body—three-quarter deep. He smiled.

His knelt down and inspect the wound in the buck's chest. In one motioned, he'd snapped the arrow in half. He easily detached the broken arrow from the dead stag's chest and discarded it. Canon tied the deer onto a bamboo pole. Conan started untying the black girth around his waist and undressed out of the amber furred coat. He had nothing on but a green tights. He was no longer the scrawny child whom he was. His body was had tribal tattoos of a Wolfborn around his torso.

Over the years, he had grown into a hulk. And he was chosen to pick a profession. The elders thought he could be a Warrior because of his Brute talents, skills and strengths. Conan loved the profession. However, those who became Guardian would be able to cast magic and train as a Warrior. It was like two professions in one, and the ability for a Norn to use all transformations.

In the end, you can only choose onside of a Guardian to be perfect. And Conan knew that he was born to be a brute and a fine swordsmen like his father. However, obtaining a sword was not that easy. After Rena took him to Wayferer Hills, they lived a poverty life. And the schooling could contribute to that. Conan had to settle for a rusty mace.

He was known for his mischief, and that was one of the reasons why he was shunned during childhood.

Conan pushed all that to the back of his mind. As he picked up a Fine wooden trident, he crafted himself. He walked towards the stream, filled with delicious Smockey Salmon. He dived. The water was fairly ten feet deep. He had on an aqua mask that allowed him to magically breath underwater. To his left, he could see several Grizzlies diving for Salmon about twenty paces from him.

However, his eyes were glued to the small school of salmon. He held out the trident, which channeled his aura from with the center of his belly. He then accumulated the aura into the palm of his left hand, and the aura swirled into a shape of a sphere the size of a base ball. He thrust that forearm forwardly—all in one motion—and through the sphere. As it neared the school, it dispersed into volleys of energy beams, striking the school of fish. A display of light shows spread like concert lights, no doubt tracking unwanted attention.

He knew he must hurry and secured the fishes before creatures lurk his way. He watched as the remaining fishes scattered and the dead ones floated to the surface. The beams magical never left any wound. He swam to the surface, collecting all the fish into one pile, threading them together with a piece of straw wire and a needle. As he reached land, he heard a rumbling growl of a reptile.

He knew that sound. His eyes scanned the area where his stag was lying. His eyebrows furrowed at the Water Drake. The Water Drake had a body of a Kamodo Dragon, but its head was like a crocodile. The Drake's mouth was agape, saliva, dripping from its fangs. It was nearly ten feet long and six feet high. This one was a full-grown drake. He thought.

"Hey you!" he shouted, drawing the Drake's attention to him.

The Drake's eyes were officiated on Conan and his stash of salmon. Conan dropped his trident and went for the spike mace, laying next to the deer. He had to evade the Drake's claws by dodging to the left. All in one motion, he tossed the pile of salmon next to the buck and grabbed the spike mace that was laying next to the deer. He gathered aura into the mace. Subconsciously, he whirled in a one-eighty motioned and swung the mace upright into an uppercut.

It connected with the Drake's lower jaw, sending it, sailing on its back into the water. When the mace had impacted, the aura that conjured extra power exploded into a sparking display of light when half the Water Drake's head was smashed in. The sickening thud of the hit could be heard from afar. And the Drake's body sank to the bottom of the stream.

"That should teach you for trying to pilfer my hunt!" He smirked.

He then tied the twine, threaded with salmon, onto the bamboo pole. He was satisfied with the result. The food was enough to feed his elder neighbors and his mother.

He squatted, hoisting the pole across his shoulders. He used all the muscles in his legs, lifting it. The weight traveled down his shoulders to his feet. It was something Conan grown accustomed to. He could walk several miles, carrying the buck and salmon in Wayfarer Foothills.

* * *

The village was not that much of a domestic, mainly its purpose is for hunting and taking refuge overnight. However, parties and gathering were usually common. There were several straw houses, campfires and twenty kegs of norn Ale. Twenty-four-seven, kegs were transported from the Great Hall. Out here was an ideal place fore escape the everlasting winter in the Shiverpeaks.

"Good hunting, Slayer," one of the female barbarians, winking at him.

"What can I say? I'm the best." He gave them a cheeky grin.

The women giggled upon his witty demeanor. They stuck their tongue out at him. Conan sighed halfheartedly. He wanted to smack himself in the head.

"Just keep on dreaming, loser."

Conan continued to grin and watched them disappeared up the hill. He walked up to the Hunter's Lodge, which was the biggest norn made structure in all of Wayfarer Foothills, but never in comparison to the ones in Hoelbrak. The lodge was a trading post for all norn hunters trade in there kills for bronze, or to help support the village. The lodge was just like an abattoir, having stacked with fresh meet of skinned animals were hung. On the left, tables were layered with Smockey Salmon from fishermen and divers. The lodge was filled with the aura of fished being gutted and cut. For some reason, he loved the smell.

Most of the Norns were mid-aged males with a long, white silver goatee. There was one teenage Norn girl who was a vendor. Swana Lanester was one of his few admires. She had long black hair and amber eyes. Her nationality was similar to human Japanese. She was one of those mild scrawny girls with curvy hips, dieting for male attraction.

Conan laid the pole next to the pile of dead animals that had just been hunted. He cut the two threads of twine the soled the salmons together. He gave one away with the buck. All together was ten silvers, enough to put a table on the food for him and his mother for two weeks, excluding the eight salmon.

As he was leaving, Swana tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around, dumbfounded and scratched the back of his head nervously.

"You're not going to say anything to me before you leave?" Her hands were on her hips, and she was scorning.

The truth was that he knew she has a thing or two for him, but he couldn't conjure the courage to tell her that he's not interested in her in any romantic way. His feeling for her was nothing but platonic. He hoped that someday that her infatuation would abate, and she would find the right guy for her. It was not that Conan didn't like women, but he has a pilgrimage to fulfill in reclaiming the Norn lost land and put an end to Jormag's days of roaming Northern Tyria.

"Sorry for my incompetence. How was your day?" He grinned halfheartedly.

She grabbed the first thing off the floor that was within her grasp, which was the bamboo pole whom he left behind. She then began to whack him over the heady. All Conan could do was pit up his bulky dukes to defend his head from each stroke.

"You're more dense than a pebble you know that!"

"What did I do wrong?" He barely spoke in an apologized tone.

The bamboo whacks increased more. It sounded like Conan was being flogged.

"Okay... okay," he continued. "Stop now!" He laughed.

Suddenly, the lounge was quiet as the atmosphere changed dramatically. Everyone's eyes were on them, especially, the males, sweat-dropping. The hues on Swana's cheeks were cherry red. She blushed embarrassingly.

"Sorry, got carried away. Got to get going. Bye Conan."

Conan watched her high-tailed it back to her vending station.

_Glad that's over. Better get these home or else mother is not going to be pleasant. Conan smiled._

* * *

His strawed house was big enough for a typical four bedroom for humans. But being Norn, towering barbarians. Norns needed more space. Conan took off his leather boots and left them in the kitchen area. Unlike most of the straw house lack kitchen, his house had one. Sink stove and all the Norn appliances you could find at Hoelbrak.

In the kitchen, preparing the vegetables from their garden was his mother. She had streaks of white hair meshed in with white and red vibrant. She had on a kitchen apron. Conan laid the salmons on the table next to the cut vegetables. He went straight into his room and began putting on his Drake skin armor, forge by him with not helm.

"Good hunting I see," she said from the kitchen.

"Never broke a sweat. I hope the Great Hunt will be more of a challenge."

"Take great care, honey. People do die during that event."

Conan tied the final clothing around his waist, which was the girth. He had his mace sheathed on his belt and a honed sceptor, strapped to his left.

"I know and it's not like it was my first ever."

He entered the kitchen. He cringed when Rena was glaring at him.

"You know what happen the last time you'd entered?"

"I pursued **Jormag**. But that was ten years ago, Mother. I was a hot-headed kid whom I used to be. I've learned from my mistake and won't let history repeat twice."

She as Conan went up to her and kissed her good-bye on the cheek, before sprinting out the door.

"Be careful, son!"


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_**E**__ach year, A great Hunt is called in Hoelbrak. Only the best among us are invited to participate. I'll prove my worthwhile guile, collecting trophies to show my prowess. That's if I must do it all over again since the last time I participated in the Great Hunt. Then, I'll drink and boast of my victories. I accept this challenge once again, with or without Jormag's intervention. I relish it. Come danger, come adventure. In the lodges and halls of my people, my cunning will be remembered throughout the ages. And finally, I'll have the respect for that me, and my family deserves._

* * *

"Hail! Hero, are you here to take part in this year's Great Hunt?" Thora Griffonbane asked.

She waived at an approaching Conan, running up the slope. He gave her thumbs up enthusiastically. She was dressed in her khaki ranger female armor. She reminded him of Eir. The difference was Thora had long black hair nearly the same style as Rena's.

"Of course I am! Just tell me what needs to be done and stand clear."

"Hunt down three of the most wildest animals you can find and take the heads of those three animals as trophies. Present only the finest to Ido the Tanner to prove your worth. Whoever has the best trophies, and whose bravery is the greatest, will be invited to join the Great Hunt."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Knut Whitebear has said this season's event will be one of the most dangerous since that tragedy ten years ago at Frostgorge Sound, so be ready." She said continued.

He knew which particular event Thora was suffering too. It was ten years ago. Hoelbrak hosted the Great Hunt. It was during the final moment when ten hunters, including him were fighting a champion Polar Bear at Earthquake Valley when a monolithic ice dragon came soaring out of nowhere, covered the sky with its colossal body, spitting out immense corrupted crystals, which spawned a battalion of icebroods.

Everyone but him perished that night, even though he'd slain the price beast to win the Great Hunt. And when they found him, the next morning, encased in a block of ice, Conan testified that he'd gone to pursue Jormag on his own instead fleeing for safety and calling for backup. He was blamed and accused of abandoning his people. And this ruined every reputation that of the Burnstiens. Conan was stripped of the Great Hunt crown and was banned from the Great Hunt for half a decade.

"I was there," he said it mournfully.

"Oh my..." she covered her mouth, afraid that she would say something that offended him. "Personally, I never hold you responsible for all those casualties. They don't understand is where you're going to run when you have an elder dragon in his minions on your back." She said it with humor and they both laughed. "Any ways, the best of luck to you. I even heard the renewed Eir Stegalkin might attend."

Suddenly, a mischievous smirked was plastered on his face. The last time he'd seen her was on that dreadful night eighteen years ago. He heard stories over the years that she had accomplished more than any other female Norn in history. And is considered to be the most decorated Norn ranger in history. Like him, she was shunned for whatever reason he didn't know about.

"I'm looking forward to impressing them both!" _Especially Eir_, he thought. "After I've earned my place in the hunt!" he exclaimed.

"Then let the Spirits of the Wild be with you always, hero."

* * *

Conan tracked down the biggest boar he could find and successfully beheaded the boar and dumped the carcass in the lake, so that the water Drakes could devour the remains. The size of the head was nearly one-third of his body. He dragged it with a piece of rope. He'd tied to the head and dragged it on soil. It never took him that long to find the second animal. An immense Owl Griffon flew over him.

Conan knew it was after the head. He had to use the power of his scepter to shoot the creature. About fifteen spheres of energy were launched from the balled point of the scepter and five of them landed a hit. The griffon screeched, spinning out of control. And when it was prone on the autumn turf. Conan clubbed it with brute strength on the crock of its neck, severing the neck from its head in one clean stroke. He took the decapitated head of the griffin and tied it with the boar's head.

Finding the third animal was the hardest. None he saw was quality size and time was ticking. In fact, the more trophies he collected. He had predators threatening to devour his trophies, so he had to ward them off with either of his mace or staff. It was tiring.

Then luck had struck him in the back as he spotted a herd of Alpine Minotaurs. In the center, was the veteran and the biggest of them all. Quickly, he hung the two heads on a tree stem and proceeded towards the minotaurs. He whistled, administering their scrutiny to him. The first one came in to gore him. He sprang on that minotaur's head and used it as a trampoline to boast his jump.

Conan catapulted himself towards the veteran. In reaching distance, Conan drew out a dagger and plummeted it into the veteran's neck. In doing so, the veteran screeched before counter with gait and planted its two hoofs onto Conan's chest plate.

Conan grunted, slightly disoriented has his body collided into one of the biggest oak trees in all of Wayfarer Foothills. The wind slight knocked out of him, and vision was hazy for several. He had only time to get up to a sitting position when his instincts had spiked. He viewed forwardly, and the longhorn of a minotaur was several feet from impaling him into the chest. He caught them and held onto them for dear life.

Conan felt that his leg underneath the beast was loose. He used the power of his feet and pushed the minotaur of him. Quickly, he got up into a stance and swung away with mace, colliding into the minotaurs right cheek. He felt that he'd broken something. His heard jerked into the left direction. He then hurdled over the unconscious minotaur only to evade another gore.

He got away from one, but another one flanked him three o'clock, and he was tackled. Conan wrestled the beast while trying to keep its horns in place. Snaring his legs around the beast, Conan rolled hard to his left. He successfully reversed their position, minotaur on the ground, flat on its belly and him on its back. Conan vehemently grasped its two horns and began to wrench them out of its head.

The minotaur, "Mooooh," in desolation. He then used the horns as a weapon by plunging it into the next minotaur that tried to blindside him. Blood was gushing out the two sides of its neck, where the two horns were buried profoundly. The Veteran had finally dropped into slumber after battling against a very potent tranquilizer that he'd ministered onto the dagger.

The rest of the herd had fled once their leader had fallen. Conan smirked triumphantly, watching the herds disappeared into the distance of the woods. Conan knelt next to the unconscious, pulled the dagger out and cut its head off. Conan grabbed the head by the horns and carried it to where the other three heads were hanging. And that was what he thought, two Alpine Skelks were licking the blood from the boar's head.

"HEY!" Conan hooted.

The two skelks turned to him. Then they peered back at each other before fleeing. As they flee into a puff of black smoke, their bodies became transparent the made them invisible to naked eyes.

"Get your own!" he grumbled.

* * *

He'd made it back to the moot. There he stood, Ido the Tanner. Conan dragged the heads along him. Ido waved at him and Conan in responded in the same gesture.

"Hail, hunter!'

Conan observed the moot and surprise that no one, but Ido and Knut were there. _Where is everyone?_

"Am I late?"

"Look up on the plateau. A red flag will be kited in the sky, signaling the Great Hunt is over."

Conan sighed eagerly.

"I'm the local leatherworker. Ido's the name. Show me your kills, and I'll make them into a trophy you'll be proud to show at the moot."

Conan started untying the heads one by one and presented each one.

"Drinking, singing and boasting! I love a good old-fashioned moot!" he continued. "Others save their parties for holidays, but I say everyday a life's worth celebrating!"

Ido took the heads from Conan, and glint of in his eyes told Conan that he was more than inculcated.

"In the decade I've been doing this. I've never seen such kills only Eir Stegalkin could ever accomplish. Let's see what the forge will bring yah. All that's need is several drops of your blood in the forge."

Conan did as asked. He slit his thumb and squeezed in several drops of his own blood. The forge looked like an immense stewing cauldron as the three heads were tossed in. A swirling, blue aura on the boiling water's surface took shape of a cone.

"Its no where near the **Mystic Forge's **level in _Lion's Arch, _but it was designed by the same asura engineers who present it to us norns, only used to forge trophies for the Great Hunt."

Something instantaneously floated on the surface of the aura clone. Ido's eyes virtually bulge out of his eye sockets. It happened to be a greatsword practically seven feet long and over one feet wide. It had the colors of a corrupted ice with a murky mist seemed to magically ooze out from the greatsword eternally.

_Perfect! Just what I needed for my adventure. Conan exclaimed mentally.  
_  
"Hey! Knut, look at this impressive trophy!" He waived at Knut. "Worthy of the Great Hunt, I'd say!"

Knut Whitebear was also astonished.

"Indeed. To forge such an Exotic Wolfborn Greatsword, not only requires the greatest trophies, but the blood of a true slayer with many years of training. You are very skilled enough to defeat your monstrous preys and wise enough to revere their spirits. You are definitely worthy of join in this year's Great Hunt!"

Knut presented the Wolfborn Greatsword to Conan.

"By my hand, I brought the mighty wurm, Issormir. Use only your trophy to slay Issormir." He pointed at the plateau. "He waits above, in the plateau, for one such as you to challenge him. The great Eir Stegalkin watches over him now, waiting for the hunt to commence. When its time, you and the others will go to the high ground over a the valley. There, you will face Issomir and claim victory—if you can!"

"I can and I will. This is where my adventure begins!"


	5. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**_C_**onan celebrated with a surprising fifteen hunters, including himself. A decade ago, there were forty hunters. It seemed the numbers diminished over the years, or perhaps the Great Hunt had proven to be overwhelming for those who'd failed to make it to the arena. He was glad that his first two entries in the Great Hunt. He could make the cut.

"Hey slayer, want some Ale to fill that empty belly of yours?" A Necromancer norn male said.

"Nah, I'll save it until after I've slain Ishomir."

"Says who? Mamma's boy!" A man chortled.

Conan's eyebrows twitched in annoyance. His eyes darted to the Warrior Norn that had the same massive muscular body. He was indeed a true barbarian. Conan thought. He seemed amazed that the guy was where a snow camouflage Cultural Stag Armor with the deer antlers on the helm down to the boot. Those set worth a fortune, and his father Tokkot was one of the only few he'd ever seen wearing them.

Conan smirked mischievously, "And who are you to judge me?"

"Save it! I know who you are, Guardian. You are a prankster! A trouble maker who doesn't even belong here! It was your fault that people died at Frostgorge Sound!" Bardog jibed.

This made every hunter turned their uninvited attention towards him. And he could see the ghostly paled skin expression, written over their face.

"Heh," Conan cracking his knuckles. "You listen to a bunch of delinquents who wasn't even there."

"You're being cynical, Burnstein."

"You people were not informed correctly. Did they ever tell you that I once wielded the **Legendary Sunrise **in the palm of my hands?"

"Preposterous! No one alive can ever pull that sword out of the stone! All stories are fairytale, conjured by the likes of you! How dare you to say such blasphemy at the moot! I should have your head for that!"

Conan unsheathed his trophy greatsword that was strapped on his back. Bardog uprooted out a rare ruby longsword. Both men got into a horseman stance, glaring daggers at one another. Two arrows grazed at their cheeks, as a small amount of blood trickled from the wound.

"There will be no horse playing on my watch!"

Both men looked at a ranger woman with a black furred wolf by her side. Her hair was the vibrant mixture of orange and red, but in the shade, it was maroon. She had a tribal war tattoo over her face and wore a black leather, lightweight ranger armor. And the glint in her eyes told them the next arrow would be shot at their cranium. Both men and all the hunters looked at her awestruck and identified her as Eir Stegalkin.

"Listen up! I will accompany you all on the Great Hunt! The slayer that kills Issormir will be declared the Victor! However, if I slay the wurm, none will be crowned this year!"

Eir scanned the hunters for any signs of women. Apparently, she was the only one, and this made her distraught that the Norn race lacked female slayers.

"No questions, then follow me if you dare—and ready yourself for battle!"

The hunters walked up a stairway. It was only a ten-minute walk, but on their way up. Shamans from the four categories of the Spirits of the Wild greeted them.

"May the Snow Leopard grant you swiftness and grace."

"May Raven blessed you with vision to see and the wisdom to understand."

"Walk with the pact, Wolfborn. In the eyes of the Wolf, we are all brothers and sisters.

"Battle with the strength of a Bear.

The arena had more space than Conan originally thought. It was surrounded by stone wall, and the battlefield covered with snow. This marked the beginning of the Southern Shiverpeaks. The arena had about thirty Ice Wurm Hatchlings. There was no sign of Issomir. He could see the vexation on Bardog's face.

"Where is the Issomir?" Bardog snarled. "I didn't sign up for small flies!"

Eir sighed, "Watch and learn."

Eir nocked an arrow and shot an arrow through one of the hatchling's head. The hatchling fell over and died instantly. Garm, which was her wolfed companion pounced on another, mauling it to death.

"Enrage Issomir by slaying its children, and it will come!"

"That's easy," Conan said as he was cutting down several hatchlings.

Soon, the others joined in, and when enough hatchlings were slain, the arena was struck by a paroxysm. They could hear screaming of a berserk wurm bellow them. And when it reached the surface, Conan and several other were thrown near the southern stonewall. Conan was on his knees when an immense Ice Wurm perhaps thirty feet high, ragingly roared out a thick breath of frosty mist.

He saw several engineers set up gun torrents, while the necromancers were summoning bone minions to fight off the hatchlings. And he heard someone screaming.

He'd see one hunter unfortunate of being in swallowed by Issomir, and this nearly diminished most of the hunters' hopes as Conan seen several hunters making an exit, forfeiting there challenge. Issomir started whipping his body in a circular motion and Conan went prone on his belly. He saw few norns being swatted like flies and several slammed into the stone walls. Issomir capitalized on one of those unconscious hunters and slammed its head of the hunter, killing the man instantly.

The arena was stained with blood as he peered into the distance and saw that torrents were broken on contact, and bodies lingered everywhere. A hand sharply grasped his shoulder, and his eyes met with Eir's.

"Are you going to stand there and let Garm have all the fun?" She said it with monotone.  
**  
**"Watch me!"

Conan stood up and lashed out at the newly spawned hatchlings from Issomir's mouths. His eyes surveyed Bardog and Garm assaulting Issomir forwardly. He needed to get into the action. Issomir's half burrowed body spun around and met Conan. It took a dive for Conan, but Conan was quick in evading. He swung up at a ten o'clock angle and severing several of its lower fangs.

Issomir growled in pain. Issomir lashed its body in a whirling motion once. Conan went prone on his stomach.

However, Issomir didn't let up on the insult. Head capitalized on Conan's inability to move rapidly. All he could do was held his sword up as the wurm's head descended. The greatsword was driven into Issomir's mouth, plunging the inner mouth. Conan was in his mouth as he was being lifted off the snowfield.

The wurm was trashing around, screaming in pain.

Conan was holding on with all his might in his hands and feet. Splitting his legs wide, he could get a proper grip using the balls of his feet to push himself inward.

The remaining hunters went on the offensive. Bardog got a better swing at its bottom lip and severed it. The head seemed to be the most vulnerable spot on Issomir's body, while its frosty snakes like scales were dense as titanium. No trophy could possibly penetrate the sales or even scratch it. A piece of wurm flesh fell onto the arena and most lamentable for Conan. It was where his feet were planted.

Conan had no where to stand as he was hanging from his trophy, dangling at the upper layer. Issomir was even in more pain, and the pace the wurm's head was traveling, twice the pace. The greatsword was slipping out, and Conan knew he couldn't hold on for much longer. Any moment, he would lose grip and fall twenty five-feet.

It began using its tongue to push Conan. This proved to be a fatal mistake, which cost the giant wurm its life. The tongue, instead, supported Conan's feet, and he was in a much better position to jerk the greatsword upright, splitting Issomir's head wide open. In that moment, Conan lost the strength to hold on to his greatsword and fell nearly twenty-five feet from the air. He sealed his eyes, knowing that the fall would give him back problems later tonight.

Issomir's body churned out of control for roughly six seconds before it fell dead. And when its body made contiguity with land, the entire arena expelled with a massive tremor. Conan heard the sound of gun-shots seized, but his vision was blurred. Suddenly, he felt hands hoisting him an up in the air. He heard the hunters chanting _Slayer of Issomir_! Conan wanted to cry out with all the spontaneous respect that he was receiving with his fellow hunters. But he held onto his pride.

When his vision exonerated up moments later, he got a good look at the deceased Issomir. It was lying dead center in the arena, covered in its own pool of blood that seeped into the snow. His eyes beamed towards the stairs, and a satisfaction grin was planted on his face, watching Bardog thrown his trophy off the plateau, scorning and cursing. No one paid attention to him as he left the arena. However, Eir and Garm made their way over to his direction, and this was the notion given to the hunters to put Conan back on his feet.

_Still the same-old goof ball I've known for a very long time, son of Tokkot_. She chuckled.

"Congratulations on your victory, Slayer."

"No, the pleasure is all yours. Couldn't have done it without your guidance."

"I would love to stay and celebrate your glory, but I must intend to the love ones of the deceased hunters. They will be honored for their sacrifice and part in the Great Hunt. Knut will present your crowning."

Knut Whitebear approached him with a golden goblet with mounted rubies and diamonds. Conan never comprehended why they would refer to a Norn wining the Great Hunt being crowned when the prize was not a crown at all.

"By my hand, Conan Burnstien of Wayfarer Foothills is the crowned champion of this year's Great Hunt. I now present this wonderful trophy with valor, wisdom and courage from the Spirits of the Wild to the _Slayer of Issomir!_"

Conan took the goblet and bowed his respect. _Now that explains the crowning. _Then he'd raised the goblet. Then people cheered.

* * *

Nightfall has fallen upon Wayfarer Foothills.

Conan walked down the stairs with both trophies. The shamans that he's seen before the battle with Issomir, waved their hands, congratulating him on his kill. Although, his back was aching from the twenty-feet fall to put on a smile. Nevertheless, he got back to the moot, and several villagers waved at him. It was such an outstanding ovation. Never he'd been respected before in his life, excluding his parents.

As he was smiling proudly, Habel Icebreaker was beckoning him.

"What a hunt!" Habel exclaimed as Conan drew closer. "I heard about your victory. Very Impressive!" Habel slapped Conan on the shoulders.

"Thank you. It was a hard-fought battle, and I'm proud of my part in it."

"Excellent beginning for your legend, friend." He chuckled. "You know; a slayer like you could be a big help. Putting your skills and to work sharpens them, and helping others wouldn't hurt your reputation, either! Think of the glory!

"I will seek out these problems and solve them. Then we will see how my legend grows."

A ranger came running into the moot yelling, "Danger! Danger! Help! The Jotuns are attacking one of the villages!"

Conan looked eight o'clock and saw the sky was bright orange with smoke. He felt his heart being ripped from his heart as the smoke came from the direction of his house.

"Mother!"


	6. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_**T**_he smell of seared timber aggravated Conan to no end. The thought of his mother being in grave danger gave him an adrenaline rush. As he arrived, it was a massacre. Houses burnt down. Slayers guardian the village was littered everywhere. His eyebrows furrowed. Teeth gritted. Fist curled. His eyes trailed upon a woman being chased by a towering Jotun with two axes.

There skin was completely Grey at night, but in day light. It was blue as a corrupted crystal. They were towering troll like hairless norns with chubby bellies. They have tribal birth marks, engraved on their bodies. These species could grow up to fifteen feet. Conan was never intimidated. He met a few friendly ones, growing up in the Shiverpeaks. But most Jotun tribes had a nasty reputation of marking as potential enemies.

Conan equipped himself hastily with a dagger and threw it with such velocity. The dagger buried deep in the crock of the jotun's neck, as it wailed, jerking the blade out of its neck. Its blood lusted eyes turned sternly. Conan never squander any time as he sprinted at the wounded, disoriented jotun. The jotun turned around, surprised as a raging blond norn brought his sword down and slashed it across its chest. It churned as is dropped dead.

Several jotun that were scavenging from burnt buildings that were safety standing at the moment eyes officiated on their dead companion. One of the jotun narrowed glared at another.

"Check it out, imbecile!" The jotun with a Wolfborn Greatsword snarled.

Soon a the jotun stepped out of the inferno straw house, a magical chained lassoed around it necked. The jotun wailed and made a suffocating nosal noise with its throat as the magical chain was retracting, tugging its body, leaving a trail behind.

Conan buried the tip of his greatsword in the throat of that jotun, as it choked on its own blood. The jotuns were not far behind as they began to encircle him like a pack of hyenas, thirsty for blood. Conan curled his lips, hissing at them. He had no time to mess around with these jotun. One of the jotun threw an axe. Conan parried it.

The next jotun swung a Wolfborn Greatsword, aimed for Conan's neck. Conan blocked it just at the tip hof his greatsword. He used all the might of at the balls of his feet. He shoved the jotun onto its back, and instinct told him that another was flanking him to the left. He ducked. The greatsword missed his head by inches.

While the jotun was still off balance, Conan twirled one-eight and brought his greatsword down upon the jotun's back. He instincts told him another jotun was approaching from his backside. Conan twirled around and lounged the great sword into the jotun's belly as it already risen its greatsword above its head to strike Conan. Its eyes flickered with surprise.

Conan pulled out the sword from the jotun's belly and watched it fall dead.

"You will pay for that norn scum!"

That jotun was struck by a barrage of arrows. It wailed out in pain. One fell near his feet. He observed the arrow, and it was a different design, nothing he could familiarize from his race. The arrow had a fake jaded tip, but shred enough to pierced flesh. His eyes glanced at small figure of a human approaching him. Not letting his guard down, he pointed the greatsword.

A teenage boy, no older than eighteen years old was approaching him with an arrow already nocked on the bow string, bow risen. He was wearing a Robin Hood like leather light ranger armor.

"I come in peace. I wish you no harm."

"State your business, human?"

"I got separated from my unit escorting Her Majesty to Hoelbrak. I was tracking them in the night until I saw the smoke and smell. And that's where I encounter you. I have never been to Hoelbrak before and I need some directions."

"I see... you're skill with a bow. Tell you what, If you lend me a hand, I'll promise to give you directions."

"Fair enough."

* * *

When the jotuns first invaded the village, Rena scrambled to her room and latched the door shut. She watched the sky through the windows. It was a mixture of black and orange from the flames of her village. She hear women and children screaming. Then as if someone pushed the mute button on a remote control for several seconds with deadly silence, the strawed roof collapsed.

The debris lounged into her, knocking her to the stag leather carpet. Have this been a concrete ceiling, she would have suffered a blunt of head trauma to the cranium. She was buried within the straws that once had been her roof—like being buried in a pile of an haystack . She wanted to move from that spot, but when the sound of thundering breathings of giant was heard like in front of her. She remained prone, heart beat racing.

She did her best to control her breathing as much as possible, so that whatever had crashed through the rooftop couldn't hear her. The twigs of straws brushed against her eyelashes and made it extremely difficult to see, especially at night. Then, out of nowhere, an immense calloused hand plucked her from the straw patch the had concealed her.

"Squeal like a doe—puny norn!"

His voice was cold as ice that sent shivers, spiraling down her spine. A doe was what Norn people referred to a female deer, while a male deer—with antlers—was referred as a stag.

The grip on her neck had hoisted her in the air. The oxygen the life from being drained from her. The iron grip, strangling her, started to increase pressure. She let out a gagging sound when she was lifted off the ground, feet dangling and scissors kicked, trying to get the feeling of the ground. Hers began to roll behind her head as the jotun's grip tightened.

He held her away from a distance, so that she couldn't gouged his eyes. She hammered at his arm with punches and tried to reach the jotun's groin with a kick from the peak of her toes, but the jotun caught her leg between its legs. Rena cursed mentally as she was coughing and trying to gasp for oxygen. At any moment, she was about to slip into the after life to join her deceased husband.

The jotun growled.

In the corner of his eye, he saw a blur streak of blue, zipping towards his head. He'd dropped Rena and reached for his two battle axes that were slung to his hips and parry the overhanded powerful stroke from a greatsword. He staggered backwards, trying to keep his balance. Rena coughed and gasped for air. She never felt the bulky arms of her son, gathered her in to his chest, hugging her.

"Mam!"

"Conan," she said it faintly.

Conan, trained as a magical warrior knows as a guardian, was also thought discipline to never fully take take his eye of the opponent in battle. The jotun regained his balance, growled in frustration. The jotuns raised his dukes with the axes, risen on both sides of its head. The jotun lounged towards Conan and his mother.

Conan concentrated his aura through his belly and channeled to to his left forearm. The aura had took physical shape of a transparent blue buckle shield. Conan slanted his greatsword three o'clock and caught the thrusting left ax at the tip of his Wolfborn blade. As expecting, the brute strength behind the stroke made him staggered off balance.

Rena cringed from the tremendous sparks of blades colliding together. What made her eerie done to the bone was the fact her son was staggering out of control and clearly he had no control of his footing help prevent the right over hand stoke from the other ax that was about to split his skull open. She closed her awaiting her son's demised.

Conan knew that overhand stroke was coming, so what he'd done was raised his forearm in front of his face that had the shield. The axed crushed the shield effortlessly, like snapping a twig. Unlike physical shields, magical shields were created with pure kinetic energy from the user's aura that took form of a barrier or a force field, protecting the user, but its only operational per attack.

However, a magical not only blocks, but it could reflect a an opponent's attack and strength produced from a melee attack and sent it back to them. The jotun felt as if an unknown force had thrust him onto his back, spiraling out of control, crashing through Conan's bedroom wall. Rena opened her eyes when she heard Conan's shield disintegrated into fairy dust.

Conan gritted his teeth.

"That was my room you overgrown buffoon!"

Conan followed the path, in which, the jotun's body had skidded out of control. There, fifteen paces dead ahead. Conan created another shield onto the same forearm as a bracers. Conan stooped several paces away from the jotun as it stood up furiously and aggravated. Conan was in a Horseman Stance, legs stretched apart.

He noticed that the jotuns right eye had been split open, when his axe slipped upright and cutting a deep gash across his eyes during his fall. Its face was covered with blood. It wanted vengeance. Conan was even surprised that it held onto the two axes. The jotun was ready to charge at him again. Unfortunately, a war horn was blow in a distance, signaling a retreat command.

The jotun furrowed a brow and growled in frustration.

"This is not over you imbecile! You will feel the power of _Dragon!_"

The jotun disappeared behind the wreckage of another home, fading into the darkness. Conan frowned to what it meant by Dragon. For some unknown reason, Conan felt it deep in his gut that the Dragon could be Jormag. He wasn't sure, but he would make sure he'd find out at first light. He'd turned to his mother and hugged her.

"Mam are you alright? I swear, I don't know what to do if anything were to happen to yah!"

Rena smiled blissfully, "Shh my son! It's all over.

Conan disagreed, "No... it's just only the beginning."


	7. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

_**D**_awn has fallen on a half burnt village. The skelks, with many other creatures roamed the village in search of food. However, they were either expelled out or been cut down by the norns. The Jaded Arrow stood all night cleaning up the debris, but Conan insisted that he retire the entire night. The carnage left the village in ruins. It could easily be rebuilt, but Conan felt that Wayfarer has become a hostile zone. To say the very least, two wives has been widowed when both their husbands were slain in combat.

A pyre would be held for those two lost souls and for those whom lost their lives in the Great Hunt this afternoon. Conan, unfortunately would not stay for he was obligated to track the jotun who'd reeked havoc and destruction here. He did not have time to assess the villagers who have been taken by the jotun in the raid. His belly churned from the thought of that. It could have been his mother; he thought. He would make them pay. And secondly, the trails were still fresh. He wanted it to be that way, making tracking less difficult to pursue the invaders.

The jotuns were after something. It was unknown that they would travel far south for plunder or to raid a helpless village. The trail was still warm. He had a long chant with Rena, and she was not please to leave here. Ever since Tokkot had lost his life years ago in the Jormag invasion on Hoelbrak, she had no desire to return, which brought back painful memories. She was stubborn like a mule, nevertheless; she gave in to her son's demands.

He helped her onto one of the dolyaks and she was mounted perfectly on the saddle. He regarded the horse the young ranger was nicely mounted on the saddle. He purchased the horse a stable located at Borealis Forest next to the Hero's Moot. The horses were too diminutive for grown norns. The stable was for raise horses for business. They sell horses to different races that were proficient to ride them like humans.

The Jaded Arrow trotted front of him.

"It's time that I should be on my way. I do not wish to keep my queen waiting any longer."

"All should be set." He turned to Rena. "I'm going to miss you, Mam." He kissed her on both cheeks. "Flokki. Sigurd. Escort my mother and the human ranger to Hoelbrak. Lundvarr, I need you for this mission. I hope you've stocked provisions."

Lundvarr the Intrepid was a bastard, born from a widowed Hoelbrak. His mother and Conan's both made the trip to Wayfarer after the invasion and settled here. Lundvarr is eight years older than Conan, but they were friends for a very long time and hunted together occasionally.

"Aye. Tis you know me for."

The two watch as the dolyaks galloped. Then they traveled behind the pack with some distance put between them. The Jaded Arrow was in the middle between the two pacts, following the first. The villagers waved them on and Conan grinned, but he'd wondered if he would ever see this village. A shadow was loomed from above, chirping, flying in circles. He looked up. It was a messenger bird.

"Are yah going tah receive?" He asked Conan.

Conan hissed. He reached out, granting his forearm horizontally like a tree branch. The messenger bird was an eagle. Conan swaddled a piece of leather carvings onto his forearm, protection from the massive talons. He received the eagle, removing the tine scroll, latched to its left talon. He then tossed the eagle up, watching it flapped its wings, until it heaved. The eagle soared and withdrawn beyond the horizon.

He carefully unraveled the parchment open. His eye narrowed after reading the contents. He carefully involute the scroll close and tucked it neatly into his sheepskin vest.

"It's a message for me. It seems that I'm needed at Hoelbrak. Beigarth the Smith conjures my presence at such atrocious timing."

"Then you must make haste my friend."

"Mark your trail for eye shall return." He flared his nostril. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm away."

"Aye Conan—Aye!"

* * *

mFour hours have passed since he'd entered the gates of Hoelbrak with his mother. They parted ways, as she headed toward the Wolf's Lodge where her husband's small estate had been since eighteen years ago. The Jade Arrow Followed him to the Great Lodge, engaging in friendly conversation, waiving at the town folks. Women whistled and gossiped about them, one particularly the Slayer of Issomir.

The Jaded Arrow spotted his queen's escort that waited outside the entrance. This probably would be the last he'd ever see of the ranger, Conan thought. Conan tied the strings of the bridle along the palisade and walked among the rampart. He entered the hall. The Great Lodge was at it was five years ago when he'd last visit. It was lively, full with entertainment. The lodge itself was very spacious at least three stories tall.

He made his way up to the stairs to his left, transient the briefing room with all council members of the norn race. The second floor was a place with merchants and smiths of the finest quality of item, jewelry, clothing, armor, and weapons in all of Southern Shiverpeaks. The norn cultural armor and weapon, the most expensive, could be found here on display. This was where Tokkot brought his heavyweight Stag Armor before Conan was born. There were smiting stations.

Conan continued to stride unto his eyes landed on massive giant about a foot taller than him, tanned skin with a brown, orange Mohawk fro with little strands of white hair, discerning his years of youthfulness that been discharged. He like another norn had tribal tattooes on his arms and torso. He then worn a war hammer, fasted to his back just the way Conan's sword. He was standing next to a massive tooth that was said to be severed from Jormag by a legendary norn warrior over a hundred years ago, his great grandfather.

Next to him was a massive frosty blue shark alike tooth, from the Elder Dragon Jormag, mounted like a statue for display. The tooth had to be nearly thirty-feet high, chains dangling from the ceiling to hold it upright. This was where hunters from all round Hoelbrak gather to determine their strength among their people. It was said that one could so much as put a scratch on the tooth, their strength would be perceived, and they would be worthy of a norn champion. No one more than a score has ever dent or even scratched the tooth with a melee weapon.

Conan knew that Tokkot was the last person to damage the tooth and probably the only documented norn in history to do so. He was proud of his father back then that he could do more than cracked the tooth. It would have taken him a day to slice through the tooth if he decided, but he had proven his point that he was indeed more than a champion adversary. He was nominated one of the legendary five great swordsmen in norn history that has ever wielded a greatsword.

Not that he had an ordinary greatsword to begin with. It was rumored that he possessed the what was known from the human gods as a Legendary Exotic Precursor. The humans' gods was said to craft godlike—known as precursors—weapons of all class and had bestowed them sometime 200 hundred years ago. A precursor is an imperfect or an incomplete legendary weapon of the gods.

The recipe for such precursors disseminated around all of Tyria in the most inhospitable environments known to the world. However, a very few, discovered and kept it to themselves in secrecy. Another way to obtain a precursor was to have it forged at Lion's Arch. The human god who could craft such exquisite and overpowering precursors.

The human God of Smith was known as Zommoros. During the purging of the gods, it was said that Zommoros had granted his essence to the humans in Lion's Arch before he could be purged completely. There, the Asura race constructed a well for a forge in the heart of Lion's Arch.

Zommoros, or what ever was left of him had been had been embedded into the forge. It was called the Mystic Forge. Only Zommoros could forge precursors spontaneously. His father was lucky. During his second birthday, Tokkot took him and Rena to Lion's Arch. He gambled with his hoard of off collectible exotic greatswords, and he received the precursor Dawn, which Zommoros blurted out to him after the sword had been crafted.

Dawn was said to be the imperfection legendary greatsword that he once held at the palm of his hands in the Great Hunt at Frostgorge Sound... Sunrise. He reminisced Sunrise's irresistable power that had him slain Icebrood champions like cutting knife into butter. His body was surging with adrenaline. The blood coursing through his veins felt like it was on fire, rapidly spreading like an afflicted decease throughout his body.

He mentally berated himself that it was not to get sidetracked. He approached the blacksmith. Beigarth was substantially built. He may even be larger than his own father, he thought. He was enthralled by that thought. Nevertheless, he exonerated his throat before deciding his selective words to greet the blacksmith. Beigarth's darkened eyes debarked upon him with a sadistic smirked to follow.

"Beigarth the Smith!" He said it warmly. "What would you have of this year's finest slayer?"

Beigarth chuckled, "You're mighty confident for one so young. It reminds me when I won the Great Hunt... but that was a long time ago." He sighed

"I choose smithing over hunting, and I never regretted it." He continued. "Now it's time to forge my masterpiece... a mighty weapon to break Jormag's tooth!"

Conan's expression remained indifferent, but furrowed a brow, stiffening.

"Nothing has much scratched the tooth in over a hundred years except my father. What makes you think you could craft such a weapon?"

"Your father was legendary. Those days with him as cubs were majestic. We always wrestled at the moot."

He detected signs of sorrow, coming from Conan. He decided to get back on the topic was the best course of action. He patted Conan.

"Deldrimor steel," Beigarth said.

"If I can get my hands on enough of it, I could make a weapon to shatter mountains! The secret of the alloy was lost with the dwarves, but I can smell existing relics into the steel I need. Such artifacts have surfaced in a jotun cave near Grawlenfjord. That is why I sent for you, if you can beat back the jotun and cave near Grawlenfjord."

Conan tensed. The trails left by the jotun that ransacked his village were heading into Grawlenjord. The jotun never bothered overlaying tracks of their existence. A mischievous grin was plasteredd on his lips. He wouldn't be disclosing to Beigarth about his other business to enter Grawlenfjord. The Smith had other things to worry about, and he was grateful that his destination was not else where.

"Interested," still grinning, "I'm determined! Ready your forge for dwarven metal, smithy!"

_**TBC**_


End file.
